In Danny Caine’s Flavortown, Guy Fieri performs an impassioned pre-show ritual. He speaks into the mirror with strings of punctuated self-affirmations: “You fiery red Camaro. You hole in the wall… You’re a guy’s guy, a chef’s chef, a mogul’s mogul and a ladies’ man.” We imagine, perhaps, a circle of fog upon the glass—how it waxes and wanes to barbecue breath; how we are now sailing in the nth season of Triple D and its Gilgamesh is about to return to his kingdom from the sanctity of a private trailer. “Do it for Flavortown,” Guy tells himself, “Do it for the dead. Do it for your boy. Do it for the people who can’t stop laughing at you.”
